


All Stories End (The Way They Should)

by azephirin



Series: Born a Girl [5]
Category: Figure Skating RPF, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Abstinence Ring, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, Loss of Virginity, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Polyamory, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Let's go dancing," said the firefly to the hurricane.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	All Stories End (The Way They Should)

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Warnings:** Consensual defloration of a 17-year-old by someone a few years older. Overlapping pairings, but no infidelity.  
> **Disclaimer**: For a variety of reasons, this never happened.  
> **Author's note:** If you don't know / don't care who Nick Jonas is, just read this as a diversion with an OMC in the [Joey!verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/3495). If you don't know / don't care who Johnny Weir and/or his fictional female counterpart are, just read this as Nick Jonas and an OFC. If don't know / don't care who any of these people are, then just read as original fic or keep scrolling, as you please. Thanks to [](http://beckaandzac.livejournal.com/profile)[**beckaandzac**](http://beckaandzac.livejournal.com/) and [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[**fannishliss**](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/) for their quick and very helpful betas, and to [](http://rivers-bend.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**rivers_bend**](http://rivers-bend.dreamwidth.org/) for not telling me (out loud) that I was crazy. Summary from "[Let's Go Dancing](http://www.cmt.com/lyrics/drivin-n-cryin/lets-go-dancing/382406/lyrics.jhtml)," by [Drivin N Cryin](http://www.drivinncryin.com/).

It was five years ago, but he can remember it clearly: up in front of the church, smiling at his mom and dad, repeating the words they’d talked to him about, sliding the ring onto his hand. They beamed at him the whole time, and it seemed like a pretty small promise in return for making them so happy. They’d had the ring made for him at Disney World; it was chunky and gold, and he thought it made him look like the kind of guy who wears badass things and keeps his promises.

Five years later, Nick wonders whether a promise counts when you didn’t know what you were actually giving away.  


+||+||+

  
**getbackjojo**: that lil jonas boy was batting his eyelashes at me  
**getbackjojo**: and before u ask i totally thought i was seeing things until meryl was all “OMG DID U SEE THE LIL JONAS BOY BATTING HIS EYELASHES AT U???????????”  
**slambiel**: wait  
**slambiel**: who is jonas boy?  
**getbackjojo**: jfc  
**getbackjojo**: ur so lame  
**getbackjojo**: [http://www.google.com/images?hl=en&amp;source=imghp&amp;q=%22nick+jonas%22&amp;gbv=2&amp;aq=f&amp;aqi=g10&amp;aql=&amp;oq=&amp;gs_rfai=](http://www.google.com/images?hl=en&source=imghp&q=%22nick+jonas%22&gbv=2&aq=f&aqi=g10&aql=&oq=&gs_rfai=)  
**slambiel**: little is right  
**getbackjojo**: i resent ur implication  
**getbackjojo**: try [http://www.google.com/images?hl=en&amp;gbv=2&amp;tbs=isch:1&amp;sa=1&amp;q=%22nick+jonas%22+2010&amp;aq=f&amp;aqi=g6g-m3&amp;aql=&amp;oq=&amp;gs_rfai=](http://www.google.com/images?hl=en&gbv=2&tbs=isch:1&sa=1&q=%22nick+jonas%22+2010&aq=f&aqi=g6g-m3&aql=&oq=&gs_rfai=)  
**slambiel**: better  
**slambiel**: did you talk to him?  
**getbackjojo**: a little  
**getbackjojo**: he’s kinda adorable  
**getbackjojo**: in a 17-yr-old way  
**slambiel**: it says that he has promised to be a virgin?  
**getbackjojo**: its a whole thing  
**getbackjojo**: if ur super religious  
**slambiel**: apparently it does not preclude batting eyelashes  
**getbackjojo**: thats the bitchy stéphane i know &amp; love!  
**slambiel**: i am glad i did not make that promise  
**getbackjojo**: me 2 bb :* :* :*  
**slambiel**: if this is preparation for asking permission, you have it ☺  
**slambiel**: like we agreed  
**getbackjojo**: dont worry, ill give u all the details  
**getbackjojo**: assuming anything happens  
**getbackjojo**: purity ring &amp; all  
**getbackjojo**: thats what its called  
**slambiel**: you americans are so strange  
**getbackjojo**: nobody who likes britney spears can judge anybody else  
**slambiel**: she is talented and misunderstood!  
**getbackjojo**: i miss u so much  
**getbackjojo**: come hang out w/ us weirdos in america  
**slambiel**: i wish i could  
**slambiel**: i love you  
**getbackjojo**: call me tmw after phys therapy  
**getbackjojo**: ilu2  
**getbackjojo**: wish i was there

  


+||+||+

  
Nick sees her again at the tech rehearsal.

Everything’s taking forever: The various floors aren’t completely ready, and the transitions between the musicians, dancers, and skaters are taking way longer than they should be. He can already tell they’re going to have to do another run-through: They can’t practice the timing like this.

She’s crouching on the sideboards with another girl skater—they’re talking and laughing like they know each other. The other one’s pretty, with long hair and a bright smile, but she looked at him like he was a little kid. Joey Weir didn’t.

Joey Weir’s still talking to the other girl, but she’s looking at him now, and she’s definitely not looking at him like he’s a little kid.

And then they get the right floor into place, and it’s back to rehearsal again.

  


+||+||+

  
**From: meryl.davis@gmail.com  
To: getbackjojo@gmail.com  
Subject: JONAS BOY BATTING HIS EYELASHES AGAIN**  
DON’T EVEN FRONT.

**From: getbackjojo@gmail.com  
To: meryl.davis@gmail.com  
Subject: STFU**  
SLORE

**From: meryl.davis@gmail.com  
To: getbackjojo@gmail.com  
Subject: DENIAL = NOT JUST BODY OF WATER IN NORTH AFRICA**  
If it helps, he’s a lot cuter than the older two.

**From: getbackjojo@gmail.com  
To: meryl.davis@gmail.com  
Subject: STFU**  
SLORE

  


+||+||+

  
Kevin always says that if you want to talk to a girl, you have to just man up and talk to her. Which isn’t actually all that helpful, but apparently it worked for him since now he’s married and everything. Which is convenient because it means Kevin’s up in his room talking to Danielle, and Nick managed to get Joe engrossed in the Terminator marathon on HBO, and here’s Joey Weir in one of the little lounge areas on the first floor of the hotel, typing on a laptop and picking halfheartedly at a salad. There’s an empty chair across from hers.

“Um,” he says, and she looks up at him. He had it planned out: He was just going to say, _Hi, can I sit here?_, and if she said yes, he’d sit down like it was no big thing, and if she said no, he’d…probably go die of being a loser. Which, if it isn’t actually a disease, should be. Enormous loseritis on account of not being able to talk to the girl (_woman_) who is sitting right in front of him. He is, without a doubt, the lamest person on Earth, because Joey Weir’s looking at him with a trace of amusement on her face, and Nick decides that he’s going to die a virgin like his parents want him to, because he needs to turn around, go somewhere, and throw himself off a cliff, if one is available. If not, he will find one.

“Do you want to sit down?” Joey Weir says, and Nick almost falls over.

“Uh,” he says, “yeah.”

It takes him a second to realize that he’s supposed to actually sit now. He does, and Joey Weir closes the laptop. “Hi,” she says.

  


*

  
Nick learns something very quickly: When you man up and talk to a girl (or, well, you don’t, but she takes pity on you and talks to you first), and she knows what you want and you know what she wants, it doesn’t actually take very long.

Less than an hour later, Joey Weir sits facing him on the bed, legs draped loosely around his hips as she strokes his hair. She has the most amazing legs: long, sleek, and solid with muscle. She’s graceful, but there’s nothing delicate about her. He’s overloading a little bit because they’re sitting here together on a hotel bed and her fingers are twining in his hair, and pretty much all Nick wants in the world right now is to put his hands on Joey Weir’s thighs. He twists them into the comforter instead, and she looks down at them and smiles, then moves her hands down to wrap her fingers around his.

His hands are probably all sweaty because he’s nervous (because it’s not like they’re just up here to watch _High School Musical_ and have pizza or whatever), and he kind of wants to die. Again.

Which is when Joey says, “You probably know this, but just so we’re clear: You know I have a boyfriend, right?”

Which is when Nick blurts out, “What?”

“He knows about this, and it’s OK. We have an agreement. But if I’m reading this right”—and for a moment her eyes blink away from his, and it’s the first time he’s ever seen her (in person, in interviews, on Olympic ice) look anything less than completely self-assured—“and if I’m reading _this_ right”—she tugs twice on the band—“it’ll be your first time.”

“You’re reading it right,” he exhales fervently, and she laughs. “And that too,” he adds, quieter, glancing down at his left hand. She raises her eyebrows at him, her question clear without any words required, and Nick says, “Did you ever tell somebody something, and you weren’t really sure what it meant, and it didn’t seem like very much, but later it turned out that it was kind of a big deal?”

Joey laces her fingers through his. “Not in the way you did, I suspect.”

“I don’t think you can keep a promise if”—_everybody lies_—“nobody tells you about what you’re actually promising.”

“It’s your promise,” she says, green eyes steady on his. Not many people have ever looked at him like that: like there’s a decision to be made and only he can make it.

_Don’t you want us to be proud, Nicky?_

He slides his hands up her thighs, and gasps when she kisses him.

+||+||+

  
_ Remember how intense it was the first time? It wasn’t as intense later—we had a clue what we were doing by then, so that made up for it, but remember what it was like to feel everything for the first time?_

Yeah, I’ll never forget that either.

God, Stéph, I miss you so much; you don’t even know. I wish you were lying here next to me. I wish I was pressing my nose into your shoulder. I wish it was going to be your fingers instead of mine after I get finished telling you about this.

I pushed him onto his back, and he had his hands all over my ass and thighs—never been with an athlete, you know? (Seriously, Miley Cyrus? You have got to be kidding. Also, I love that you knew that and I didn’t. I’m totally researching the hell out of the next person you sleep with. I don’t care if it’s Joubert. I’ll research the hell out of him anyway. I’ll find out that he pays people to come over and throw grapefruit at him or whatever. You know he’s into something bizarre like that.) Anyway, I think Nick was used to soft little girls.

For a while I just kissed him. He was ready to let me do anything I wanted, and I kissed him until he’d calmed down a bit. When he started trying to grind against me too hard, I pinned his hands to the bed, and he moaned like it was something he’d never even thought about before—or like it was something he’d never let himself think about before. I pinned his hands and kept kissing him, and he never even tried to fight me. Just gave himself right up to it.

Is that how you’re going to be next time, Stéph? Are you going to be good for me, or are you going to make me hold you down?

I might hold you down anyway.

  


+||+||+

  
He doesn’t know what it’ll be like, and it’s not like anything he’s ever done before. Between her legs Joey Weir is salty, salty with her own tang that tastes a bit like it did when he kissed her, and Nick can’t help moaning again, pushing his hips into the bed for some relief.

She sits straight up and slaps him across the ass. “No!” she says sternly, and he can’t help it either when he gasps and ruts against the mattress again.

Joey cups his face in her hands, and he blushes. “You liked that, huh?” she says, smiling.

He’d like for her to spank him. (How weird is _that_?) He’d like for her to let him lick her again. He’d like for her to suck him off. He’d like for her to roll him over and ride him like in that movie he downloaded and didn’t tell Joe and Kevin about. At this point he’s pretty sure he’d like anything.

She slaps him again, and he makes a pleading, inarticulate noise when she rubs the spot she hit. “That’s probably a little much for your first time.” Her voice is gentle, but she sounds sure. “Why don’t you go back to what you were doing. I want you to make me come, Nick.”

“Please,” he breathes, and she guides his mouth back to her secret parts.

  


*

  
“Turn over onto your back,” she tells him, and he does, immediately. She stretches out on top of him and looks down at him. She’s smiling again, and Nick bites his lip because he wants to be inside her so badly that he’s about to lose his mind.

She reaches over to open a drawer in the bedside table and pull out a small plastic packet. She rips it open and rolls the contents onto his dick, which throbs at the attention. Joey wraps her hand around the base. “Don’t come yet,” she warns. “Not until I tell you to.”

She dips a hand into the nightstand again, this time pulling out a black tube of something that, when she flips its cap, looks like clear shampoo. Whatever it is, it’s slick and hot in her palm, and it makes him whimper and squeeze his eyes shut as she touches him, fingertips light on his balls and the head of his cock.

“Not until I tell you to,” she repeats when he thrusts up into her hand.

He grits his teeth. “I don’t think I can…” He wants to last, he does, but Joey’s touching him better than he’s even done it to himself, and his body is pretty much out of his control: He’s arching up, all but begging her, and he doesn’t last, he can’t, it feels way too good.

Luckily, he’s seventeen and he comes back fast.

  


+||+||+

  
She wakes up to the unexpected solid warmth of Nick Jonas asleep next to her.

He's terribly innocent like this: eyes closed, lashes resting lightly on his cheeks, hair a corona of tangles. His lips part when Joey runs her forefinger over them, but he doesn’t wake.

_I am so going to hell,_ she thinks.

Then: _I can’t wait to tell Stéphane._

She nudges Nick, kissing his temple and the round of his forehead as he lurches into consciousness. She kisses his mouth once he’s completely awake, and says what she needs to. “Hey. You better get back to your room, or your brothers are going to have a manhunt out.”

It’s true, but not the truth. The truth is that the only person Joey likes to sleep next to is in Switzerland.

Nick looks at her, and there’s a silence just long enough to suggest that he understands what she isn’t saying. _Not so innocent now,_ Joey thinks, and it’s not a victory. She doesn’t want to repeat that part to Stéphane except that she promised a long time ago she’d never tell him anything but the truth.

He dresses, and she kisses him good-bye at the door. Then she falls asleep in the other bed and doesn’t wake until the alarm goes off.

  


+||+||+

This happens sometimes on Saturdays, probably more often than is strictly beneficial for efforts to behave like productive adults: They get up at a perfectly decent time and have breakfast…which then turns into brunch, which they finish and then go back to bed. Which is where they are right now, and the woman who will later become Nick’s wife is offering a series of guesses that vary in their improbability.

“Ke$ha.”

“Not even with somebody else’s dick.”

“Angelina Jolie.”

“Only in my dreams. Literally.”

Ayana laughs. “You and everybody else. Miley Cyrus.” Her voice changes a little—slows down, emphasizes the syllables—when she says Miley’s name, and even though her tone is still light, Nick knows Ayana’s joking has ended.

Nick turns onto his side so that he can settle an arm across her stomach. “No. We were only fourteen, fifteen, when we dated. And I was still doing the saving-it-for-marriage thing back then.”

“Good thing you changed your mind,” Ayana says, and she could be joking with this, too, but her eyes are steady and serious, and she covers his hand with hers.

“Yeah,” Nick says. Eight years and a feast of media cannibalism later, he’s never regretted taking off that ring, but it still hurts to remember his mother’s expression the first time she saw his left hand bare.

“So was it anybody I know?” Ayana asks, a verbal nudge.

Nick picks up the thread again. “Probably not. She retired a few years ago.”

Ayana’s eyebrows shoot up. “Retired? Just how old was this seductress?”

Nick laughs. “She was a competitive athlete. Different kind of retired. I haven’t talked to her in a while, but I know she produces ice shows and tours now—she’s not retired like go-to-Florida retired. Her name was Joey Weir.”

Nick’s about to tack on, _she was a figure skater_, but Ayana sits straight up, stares at him, and exclaims, “No fucking way!”

“Yes fucking way,” Nick says. “I didn’t know you were into figure skating.”

Ayana collapses onto his chest. “Oh my God, Nick, I had the biggest crush on her! Joey Weir, are you serious? I wanted to drop dance and learn to skate! I was seventeen and already in at Juilliard—it would have been a terrible idea—but my mom actually had to talk me out of it. She took this prissy, overwrought sport and made it fierce and amazing! I think I had like fifteen of her routines on my iPod. I’m pretty sure I still have the one to ‘Rock and Roll.’” Ayana sighs. “Oh, Joey Weir, be still my heart. I can’t believe you lost your virginity to her.”

“Believe it,” Nick says. “We were in a benefit together, back when I was still performing with Joe and Kevin. I was seventeen.”

He watches Ayana do the quick calculation in her head before her lips twist in mischief. “You totally nailed an older woman. Why am I not even surprised?” Ayana adds, “Did she skate for you?”

Nick admits, “No. She kicked me out of her room, and I did the walk of shame at four a.m.”

“I will kill the bitch,” Ayana declares, “but it will make me very sad.”

Nick shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t… She wasn’t trying to be mean. There was somebody she wanted to be with, and couldn’t. I don’t think she wanted to sleep—actually sleep, I mean—with anybody but him.”

Ayana nestles closer, and Nick tucks her head under his chin. She’s his goddess at rest: elegant, strong, bare and warm against him. “That actually does make me sad,” she says.

“It turned out OK,” Nick says. “They’re married now. And I’ve got you.”

Ayana draws a figure-eight on his skin with her finger. “All stories end like they’re supposed to.”

“Some of them do,” Nick agrees.


End file.
